


Looking to the Past

by bluebeholder



Category: Wizard101 (Video Game)
Genre: Agender Character, Character Study, Gen, Growing Up, Heavy Angst, Minor Character(s), Trauma, meditations on the nature of heroism, myth school, this is a kid's game i'm taking way too seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: The young wizard, not quite as young anymore, reflects on their journey so far before embarking on the quest to Celestia.To control the Future, one must look to the Past.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	Looking to the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm taking Wizard101 way too seriously. In my defense, this game is really hitting some dark themes!

Two years since the defeat of Malistaire, and Ryan had never felt older or more tired.

They still remembered the aftermath of the battle well. Professor Drake nearly carried Ryan back to Wizard City. Bartleby and Ambrose commended them, and the school toasted them. They’d spent a month convalescing; the very air of Dragonspyre was poisoned by the Dragon Titan.

They barely recognized the person in the mirror when they were finally back on their feet. Their eyes, always a muddy blue, were clear, bright, like the sky. And their pupils were flecked with gold. In the dark, Ryan noticed a faint, golden glow from their skin. 

Occasionally, the ticking of a clock, or the sound of sand falling in an hourglass, echoed distantly in their ears. Sometimes the shadows around them grew strange, large, winged and horned, as if cast by beasts of legend. 

More and more often, they had visions of the past, of the future. The faces of people they didn’t know, and places they couldn’t find on maps. Snatches of songs, scattered words. Even, a few times, the dizzying sensation of alien air, or of different ground beneath their feet.

Professor Drake said that this was normal. Conjurers of certain skill and power became more in tune with their magic, in ways that ordinary wizards were not. 

“I am still surprised that you are such a conjurer, but there it is,” he said snidely.

Words aside, Ryan wasn’t blind to the hint of concern in his severe face. 

They’d spent actual time in school since returning from Dragonspyre. Not the slapdash education of battle, but real school, with essays and homework. Many general education classes with students seven or eight years their junior, to catch up on simpler magics like making things float, creating basic enchantments on objects, and so on. A few classes on languages, botany, biology, mathematics. All things wizards needed, which Ryan had never studied except informally in the field.

They’d no need for the higher-level conjuration classes, though, and so their time was largely spent in tutoring with Professor Drake.

Considering his general attitude toward students and to Ryan in particular, it still felt a bit awkward that Ryan was most comfortable in Professor Drake’s office. The days of doing laundry and near-expulsion were long gone. A certain respect and understanding, after Dragonspyre, tempered some things. Professor Drake was a little less sardonic. When he was, Ryan was sardonic right back. 

They were his equal, in some ways. They’d begun to achieve feats that Professor Drake understood only in pure theory. Still, that knowledge was invaluable, and fascinating. And if it came with endless pages of essays that came back marked in red ink, practical exams that ended in scalding commentary, and occasional arguments that ended in duels, well...at least Professor Drake acted like Ryan was just another student.

Peers their age, for all that Ryan was the better conjurer, were somehow still ahead. They were going on to professions and apprenticeships, or pursuing academic careers, or going off to school or work in other worlds. The younger students in their classes looked at Ryan with awe. Shyer ones just stared. Bolder ones asked Ryan to demonstrate summonings, or to try a duel with them. 

Dismissing these thoughts, Ryan shouldered their pack and took one last look around the room. Everything they needed for the trip was in their bag. Three full potion bottles, a bag for reagents, the box of spare spell cards, a change of clothes, socks and underthings, spare boot laces, iron rations, cough drops, sewing kit, purse, pen and ink and paper, the ring of Spiral Keys. Bedroll and enchanted broom strapped to the outside of the pack.

In their pocket, their spell deck, tailored for unexpected encounters. Their old, battered hat firmly on their head. Staff in hand, and their faithful little miniature krokomummy Kisha waiting at their side. Halston Balestrom’s gift in their pocket. 

“Ready for the grand tour?” they asked Kisha with a smile. She squealed, and danced a little. 

Ryan stepped out of the dorm and locked the door behind them. The courtyard was empty in the early dawn light. They stretched. 

Time to go.

-

First stop: Wizard City itself. Cyclops Lane, to be exact.

Ryan stared out into the great, blue void beyond the edge of Wizard City. Beside them, the stream poured off the edge into the depths; behind, the fairground rang with shouts and laughter. Idly, they tore up a handful of grass and tossed it over the edge.

“This is a good place,” Brontes rumbled.

The cyclops sat beside Ryan, looking altogether at home on this street named for his kind. It had been a long time since Ryan just spent time with their friend. 

“It is,” Ryan said. They glanced back, to where the street curved away, and sighed. “I keep meaning to move into a house here. Ambrose said he’d give me dispensation for it.”

“Sometimes,” Brontes said, meditative, “it is not what we like that guides us.”

Brontes had been with them in that final battle with Malistaire. Indeed, he’d been with Ryan many times throughout their journey—summoned onto the dueling sigil to lend his strength. After Dragonspyre, though, Ryan hadn’t needed to summon anyone. So they hadn’t. 

Ryan tossed more grass off the edge. It spun, lazy and slow. At first, it fell—but the breeze caught it, and all at once the tiny blades whirled in all directions, caught by the pull of the Spiral. Who knew where they’d end up landing?

“Thanks for coming,” Ryan said at last. 

“It is my pleasure,” Brontes said. He patted Ryan’s shoulder with one massive hand.

“You’re very chipper,” Ryan said. They looked up at Brontes. “Considering the last few years…”

“The past is in the past,” Brontes said. He laughed. “I only have one eye, and can only look one direction. Therefore, I look forward!”

Brontes’ laugh was infectious and Ryan joined in. They sobered quickly, though. “It still feels like I just got home,” they admitted, looking back out into the void. “Like it was all yesterday.”

“It has been two years, my friend,” Brontes said, solemn.

“I do keep a calendar, you know.”

The cyclops ignored them. “I have known many conjurers who become trapped in the past. But they were trapped in times so far gone that nothing could harm them. You are in the past, my friend, but it harms you still.”

Silence fell, for a long moment. “We should go and get a snack,” Ryan said at last, summoning up a smile. Careful of the edge, they stood up. Kisha came running from where she chased butterflies. “Come on. I smell popcorn.”

Brontes rose, too, towering over Ryan. Though his brow was still furrowed, he too smiled. “I prefer caramel, if it’s all the same.”

“If you must,” Ryan said. 

Brontes laughed. “You know I must!”

They went back to the fairground, searching for the popcorn vendor. Among cyclopes and trolls and minotaurs, Brontes looked right at home. He greeted everyone, even the novice conjurers who tended to flock to this part of the city.

Ryan recognized fewer faces than they’d like, though it felt as though everyone recognized them—and seemed awestruck about it. It was like being in a new world again. Everyone staring, wondering about this foreigner.

Funny, how home could feel so strange.

-

They were barely fourteen, when they set out for Krokotopia. 

It had been an amazing adventure, from start to finish. The hot crunch of the sand under their feet, the majesty of the great tombs, the beauty of the art. Ryan loved the Manders, the food, the music. They’d found Kisha in the tomb of Krokopatra herself.

Everything had seemed so bright, back then. They’d accepted without question that they had to restore the Order of the Fang, and that they—not the Order—should face Krokhotep and Krokopatra to save this world. And the cheering and celebration, the title, the glory, had all been so worthwhile.

“How many did I kill?” Ryan asked, looking at General Khaba over the chessboard.

The Krok eyed them. “As many as necessary,” he said.

“That’s not an answer,” Ryan said.

“It is, though not the answer you wanted.”

Ryan took a long sip of beer to avoid saying anything rash. They hadn’t been allowed, seven years ago, to try it. Now they could appreciate the rich flavor of dates and honey, the heady smell of yeast and fermented barley. 

“I’m twenty-one, General,” Ryan said at last, looking off toward the vast shape of the pyramid. “I’m not a child.”

“You are not,” Khaba agreed. “Yet I do not know the answers you seek. Seven years is a long time, Wizard. The names of the dead are written and they are buried. We have moved on from those dark times.”

Ryan bit their lip and didn’t say a word.

Khaba gazed at them with wise, cold eyes. “If you have not moved on,” he said quietly, “I advise you to. The past will haunt a warrior who does not make peace with it.”

For half a second, Ryan wanted to retort that Khaba didn’t know what it was like. But—if anyone in the Spiral did, the General did. So Ryan kept their mouth shut, and made their next move on the chessboard. 

-

“We are pleased that you have graced us with your presence,” the Queen said.

Ryan, hat in their lap, smiled. At their feet, Kisha chewed on a small pile of crumpets. “It’s a pleasure, Your Majesty. I’m always happy to visit Marleybone.”

That was a lie, but it was delivered smoothly enough.

For all Marleybone’s elegance, the fine buildings and gardens, the opulent salons like the one in which Ryan and the Queen sat now, it felt claustrophobic. Always had. Even at the time of their first adventure here, only fifteen, it had been uncomfortable to realize that the bandits, the cats and rats, were poor. The dogs were rich and afforded all the best places, the finest furniture, the brightest streets. Not so the rest. 

Yet here they were now.

“We request a small favor, if you are so inclined,” the Queen said. “Sherlock Bones has reported to us that he has sniffed out trouble—thefts, shadows moving in the night. A murder. He has confirmed that Meowiarty is not behind it all. Were you one of our subjects, we should command you to aid us. As it is, Wizard, you are the Hero of the Spiral, and so we shall ask.”

Ryan looked at the Queen. She was small, in her great plush chair, with her fine dress and crown. Beautiful, youthful, though her golden fur was speckled gray. And it wasn’t hard to see that, under her pomp, that she was afraid.

Rightly so. If they’d called on Ryan, that meant things were really serious. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t a threat the Watch, Sherlock Bones, or anyone else in Marleybone could handle.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” they said, gently as they could. “I’ll meet with Sherlock right away. I’m sure he’ll have leads for me to follow.”

“We thank you, Wizard,” the Queen said. 

Ryan bowed, hat in their hand, and left with Kisha on their heels. It was going to be a long night. 

They stood on the steps of Barkingham Palace and surveyed Marleybone. It seemed nothing at all had changed. Just the same as Ryan remembered, stolid and posh and boring.

Yet, out there on the rooftops and in the winding alleys, some new danger waited, in a world Ryan left at peace.

Kisha butted her head affectionately against their leg, and Ryan gave her a scratch on the head. “I suppose we’ve got to, right?” Ryan said with a sigh. 

They put their hat firmly on their head and strode off to find Sherlock.

-

Crisp, pine-scented air filled their lungs with every breath. The wind made the tip of their nose numb. Ryan stood on the edge of a cliff, looking out over a valley. A river wound among the trees, and there were curls of smoke rising from houses somewhere below. The sky above was a bit cloudy, but no signs of rain. 

Of all the places in the Spiral they’d ever been, this was one of their favorites. 

Grizzleheim was no land for the faint of heart. The monsters lurking in the forests and caves here were terrible, dangerous in ways that made other parts of the Spiral look downright safe. Yet the people here were good and honorable. They were quick to take offense and just as quick to admit fault when it was found. Nights around the hearth were full of laughter. 

And it was beautiful, besides. Every stream and lake, cold as the glaciers and icy mountains from which they flowed, were clear. The trees were tall and stern, full of mystery. Craggy paths cut through breathtaking views over ancient mountains, and rainbows shone in every waterfall.

Of course, they’d had a lot to do here other than sightsee. Wolves, bears, boars, ravens, Grendels...all vying for control of this land, with the ravens bent on freezing the whole world solid. Ryan had hunted down treasures in caves, helped lay ghosts of ancient warriors to rest, destroyed siege engines, chased ravens over icy cliffs, brokered peace between wolves and bears, and fought Grendels in every nook and cranny of the world. 

And, even though they’d been trying to save yet another world, it had been fun. 

Then again, Ryan thought as they picked their way down the cliff, they hadn’t had to do it all at once. Grizzleheim hadn’t faced imminent doom. There were plots to be unwound, moves in a chess game to make. Every so often, Ryan was called upon to go help, and go they had. It almost felt like a vacation.

“Only I would think that climbing a glacier is a vacation,” Ryan said aloud. 

Around them, wind whispered in the trees. Ryan should, possibly, have been worried about wandering on their own. They weren’t. Everyone in Grizzleheim knew who they were. They had a reputation, after all. 

Sometimes, thinking about the ravens, Ryan worried. They wouldn’t be stopped so easily, would they? The game wasn’t over yet, if they had anything to say about it.

But Grizzleheim was quiet. No signs of trouble at all. So Ryan, every time they considered the potential problem, put it out of their mind. 

Ryan did their job and they did it well. Grizzleheim would never be a world truly at peace, not with people so prone to arguments, or with powerful Grendels lurking in the shadows. But it was no longer a world risking its own demise. 

That was enough. 

-

Wind rustled in the bamboo thickets that bracketed the road. Ryan wandered lazily along, Kisha trotting at their side and occasionally detouring to look at a butterfly. The sun was warm and the sky was blue and Mooshu was at peace.

At the end of the road was the gate to the palace. The guards saluted when Ryan went in. Within the walls, the scent of cherry blossoms hung heavy over everything. Delicate pink flowers covered the ground. Music filled the air. It was the time for the cherry tree festival, and Ryan had of course been invited, when they came through the Spiral Door.

They’d slipped away for a while, though, to wander the lonely roads of Mooshu they’d spent a year and a half traveling. So much ground to cover between outposts and castles and villages. Beautiful places, with graceful architecture and bright colors. Torn by war, yes, but when the fires were out and the would-be warlords driven back, the fields and towns were peaceful and the people kind. A marvelous and beautiful world.

Still, Ryan mostly remembered their seventeenth year for their always-sore feet.

“Wizard!” 

Ryan looked up to see Shojiro Gama approaching. The samoorai looked happy and bore his sword, though he walked with a heavy limp. In festival attire, he looked far from the somber, wounded samoorai they’d met in Hametsu Village so long ago.

“It has been years,” Shojiro said, stopping at Ryan’s side. “And you have become a great hero. I congratulate you.”

“You’re the greater hero,” Ryan said, smiling. They brushed cherry blossom petals off their shoulders. At their feet, Kisha caught them. And ate them. “Who was it that held off Katsumori against impossible odds? Certainly not me!”

Shojiro laughed. “Perhaps. Yet you went on to save the entire Spiral.”

Ryan forced the smile to stay on their face even as their stomach dropped. “Yeah,” they said. “I did.”

“Come,” Shojiro said heartily, oblivious to Ryan’s change of mood. “There is a poetry contest beginning soon. Din Ho has even come from the Cave of Solitude to give the poem upon which he has meditated for a year.”

“Lead the way,” Ryan said. They kept their head down, and ignored the people who stared at their passing. The whispers were no louder than wind in the bamboo.

-

Going to Wysteria was Ryan’s cue that they were deliberately wasting time.

That didn’t stop them, though. 

It had been so long since the Spiral Cup that no one recognized them, when they strolled up the street. Wysteria had few visitors, being an out-of-the-way school which everyone recognized as a sham. Even so, the occupants of the place were entirely too self-absorbed to take real notice as Ryan wandered among them.

Really, they had no business being here again. 

They’d last come for one thing: to win a contest. Not a significant contest, at that, but it had been fun. Going up against people from all around the Spiral. It had been fun to...show off. They were fresh off their first trip to Grizzleheim, flush with success after saving Krokotopia. A child with stars in their eyes and a spring in their step, utterly convinced they were the Savior of the Spiral. 

Against all odds, despite the best efforts of Chester Droors and Lord Bramble to turn the school back into a forest, Ryan had succeeded in preventing their plans. Still, there were many vines on the buildings, and the gardens and window-boxes grew with unusual verdancy. Idly, wandering up Tanglewood Way, Ryan wondered if in the future they’d be called back to do it all again. 

They also wondered, now, with so much distance between them and the Cup still sitting in their dormitory, if it was right to have done what they did. Lord Bramble was once the ruler of this place, after all, and his people were the first to live in this world. The school stood on razed trees and the cobblestoned roads were built on once-trackless land. Had Ryan really done the right thing, preventing Lord Bramble from destroying the school and restoring Wysteria to the way it had been?

It was no matter, anyway. Lord Bramble was gone. Wysteria remained, for whatever it was worth. 

No one noticed when Ryan left.

-

No one was there to speak to, in Dragonspyre.

Ryan had long since put its ghosts to rest, and the draconians and other inhabitants knew well enough to stay away from them. There were a few battles as they walked through the desolate streets, of course; those who lived in this place were among the most warlike in the Spiral. Nothing they couldn’t handle. 

They made their way all the way to the top of Dragonspyre, to the tower where Malistaire made his stand. A whole day’s hike, up through a city where they’d once spent months wandering. They should have been afraid, so close to the sleeping Dragon Titan, but Ryan didn’t care. It wasn’t as if they were going to just carry out the ritual again.

They sat and looked out into the grim, empty void.

Kisha curled up at their side, small and comforting. She knew a little, of course; she was good at reading Ryan’s moods. But a tiny krokomummy could only do so much.

“I don’t know if I hate it or love it here,” Ryan said aloud, looking down at the winding streets and walls below. A whole tour of the Spiral, just to reach Dragonspyre.

They lost a year and a half of their life here, running and hiding and fighting unending battles for spirits that died a millennia before Ryan came to the Spiral. It had been the peak of their career as a savior. They’d saved the Spiral, hatched and ridden a dragon. Glorious acts of heroism, for the sake of the world. 

It didn’t feel heroic now.

Cracked, ruined streets flooded with lava and suffocating fumes. Homes become lairs for vile creatures or tombs for the dead. Ghosts begging for closure, for the knowledge that their sacrifice meant something. Cruel magic holding the whole of Dragonspyre in terrible thrall. Secrets never meant to be uncovered, laid bare for power.

For Ryan’s power.

The skeletons of draconians they killed still littered the streets, two years on.

Two years of peace and the bodies had never been buried.

Here, at the pinnacle of Dragonspyre, Ryan reached the pinnacle of their heroism. A battle to the death. Ryan had summoned cyclopes and minotaurs to their side, had unleashed every ounce of their magic, while Malistaire carried out his apocalyptic ritual. In the heat of the fight, with the Dragon Titan’s massive eye watching the fight with waking curiosity, Ryan thought of nothing but their survival. Malistaire outmatched then in every possible way.

Yet, in a moment of ill thought, distracted by his impending victory, Malistaire left an opening. 

In that moment, battered and bleeding on the dueling circle, no minions, no friends, with one spell left in their deck and just enough mana to cast it, Ryan killed him.

And they called Ryan a hero for it.

Ryan looked down at the Spiral Key cupped in their hands. A beautiful key indeed. So elegant and evocative. A promise of adventure and wonder that pulled at Ryan, just as the Spiral Key to Krokotopia had so long ago.

“It will just be an adventure to answer the distress call,” Ryan said. “Celestia...just another world. It will be all right, won’t it?”

No answer came.


End file.
